


What They Need

by brilliant_or_insane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Cannon compliant, John Loves Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, NO character deaths, S02E03, Sherlock Loves John, The Reichenbach Fall, Until it isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliant_or_insane/pseuds/brilliant_or_insane
Summary: Sherlock had it coming. Howdarethe man prioritize his fucking emotionless mask over Mrs. Hudson’s dying comfort? Yes, Sherlock was asking for it, and if that was the reason John had stormed out on him he might (almost) run off with a clear conscience. If he hadn’t used that word, at least. But that wasn’t the reason John had said it, and he knows it clear as anything. He hadn’t shouted at Sherlock because Sherlock is a dick, or even because John fears he doesn’t care about anything. Sure, those were the aggravating circumstances, but the core of it, plain and simple, is that John is terrified Sherlock doesn’t care about him.Well, fuck me if I’m going to leave the man I love to suffer alone because of my fucking insecurities. You’ve got exactly three minutes to fix this, John Watson, and then straight to Mrs. Hudson, no matter what.





	What They Need

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born from a brilliant prompt from @wssh-watson on Tumblr and my own growing awareness through meta and fan fiction that The Fall really was the moment that everything fell apart between these two characters. Because it gives away the conclusion of the story, I'm including wssh-watson's prompt in the notes at the end of the fic.
> 
>  
> 
> It's also worth noting that this fic does assume a decent level of familiarity with the BBC Reichenbach Fall episode. And it case it isn't entirely clear, it picks up immediately after John and Sherlock chase Moriarty out of Kitty Reily's house, having been presented with his 'evidence' that both Sherlock and Moriarty are fake.

It is in that moment, standing in the middle of the road, furious ( _not frightened, no; I’m angry and_ not frightened), that the vague intuition which has been trying to form for weeks finally solidifies into thought and conviction.

Moriarty has disappeared again—he stood there acting and feigning and smiling and then was gone like it was nothing—and John is standing with the hard ‘proof’ that Sherlock is the fake and Richard Brook is the real man; only John really is just angry, looking as if he wants to obliterate every byte of data that ever had the audacity to doubt Sherlock Holmes. ( _Bless John, bless this unaccountably loyal man. Not me, though; I’m not one for blessings; someone else must bless him_ ). And Sherlock is pacing, mind racing, fingers tangling hair, Moriarty’s words echoing, _I’m a storyteller, I tell stories, I’m just a storyteller_ and— _Oh. Right. Of course._

Sherlock stills, hardly knowing whether he is calm or numb, ( _don’t evaluate the feeling; irrelevant_ ). The pieces slot into place, clean, perfect, all the facts accounted for. _Fairy tales. Sir Boast-a-Lot. The charred gingerbread man. Burn the heart out of you. I’m a storyteller._ Moriarty is telling a story, has promised a tragedy, and he won’t conclude it inelegantly, not with a sniper in the dark. No, murder would mean investigation, discovery of innocence. His death needs to confirm his guilt: suicide, then, proof of his shame and despair. It’s poetic. Elegant. Moriarty destroys Sherlock's work—his heart; that’s what he must have meant by burning Sherlock’s heart—and Sherlock himself seals that destruction with his dying breath.

Conclusion: He needs to die. Worse: He’ll have to ask Mycroft for help.

“Sherlock?” _John._

“Something I need to do.”

“What? Can I help?” _Of course that’s what he would say. Bless him. Someone else, bless him._

“No—on my own”

Although he hadn’t consciously noted it, that decision had slotted into place with the others—this is his death, he will control the conditions, and John will have no part in it.

* * *

John stares after Sherlock’s retreating figure, anxious, angry. _Dammit._ He hates this.

He had hoped they were done with this charade—ever since the drugs incident in Baskerville Sherlock had been so much better about not cutting John off in the middle of the work. Sure, he still gets distracted and forgets or just doesn't bother to communicate essential details; but he no longer involves John through deceit or (intentionally) abandons him for the climax. John had suspected—or at least, hoped—that this was Sherlock’s way of saying ‘sorry.’

But now Sherlock bloody Holmes is at it again. Just when it matters most, when everything is fear and shadows and John desperately wants to be present, to help and protect.

The first time—when John returned from Moriarty’s trial and Sherlock’s eyes shifted away and John _knew_ something had happened—that first time he told himself that it was alright, that he just needed to trust Sherlock. But of course he remembered the cabby, the speckled pill hovering before those sensitive lips, and he knew that he would indeed trust Sherlock with the protection of almost anything of real value, anything at all except himself.

Now John momentarily considers chasing after Sherlock, trying to follow him; but it’s no good. No one knows London better than Sherlock, and he is quite capable of losing John if he is determined. Perhaps it would be better to search his common haunts or—

The papers crumple in his clenching hands, and he looks down, remembering. There is one person whom Sherlock is unable to shake. A person who, incidentally, needs to be shouted at immediately.

* * *

_Thud thud, thwack. Thud thud, thwack. Floor cupboard, hand. Floor cupboard, hand. Thud thud, thwack._

The rhythm of the rubber ball that will stop his pulse is precise, unvarying, reliable. Like his mind and the scenarios he devises. Comforting.

While calm, Sherlock decides it would be beneficial to catalogue his emotions. They are being . . . invasive. He will use his current stability to take each in hand and put it in its place.

Anxiety—expected. Today he might die. But that is hardly unusual; just increased odds today. The emotion is pleasingly under control and easily placed in his filing cabinet. ( _filing cabinets are boring, organized, rational. Good for combatting the irrationality of emotions_ ).

Mourning—less expected. No point in mourning his own death; can’t be that. Must be that if he survives he will be leaving the city he knows, with the comfort of the streets and the shops and the . . . the people he can navigate without pause, without anxiety. This emotion is harder to keep put; but he places as much as he can manage next to files containing his confidence in his skill set and his ability to learn a location quickly, and after a minute decides he’s filed enough to get on with.

Shame—why? He steps curiously towards it, and catches his breath. No good. He hates unfinished business, but this will have to wait. Whatever it is, it’s too much to sort through in a moment. Best just lock the door for now.

Relief—puzzling. This one has been nagging at him. Not because it is unpleasant, but because it is nonsensical, and he can’t properly file it without understanding it. He knows the relief was prompted by the revelation that when Moriarty spoke of burning Sherlock’s heart, he meant Sherlock’s work, not John. But why did he assume Moriary meant John in the first place? After all, his work _is_ his heart. It always has been, and he decided it always will be that day at the pool when . . . well. Why had he expected Moriarty to get it wrong?

The door opens— _John._ Back to work, then.

* * *

John is seething with fury. He's never especially liked Mycroft, but he had thought Mycroft was on his brother's side. He had never thought—never imagined . . . and then Mycroft had the audacity to bloody _apologize_ for it, as if he could make up for selling his brother's life story to a maniac with a fucking _word_!

On some rational level John understands what sort of corners Mycroft might have been backed into. And, by god, John would have been furious in any case, but it wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for the memory of that empty leather chair three weeks ago and the way it had threatened to wrap every unbearable loss in a single event. Sherlock had disappeared during a dangerous mission two days before and John had searched without pause for 48 hours until Lestrade told him that there was nothing to be done for the time being and the best thing he could do for Sherlock was get a good night's sleep. And John knew he was right, yet all he could do for hours was sit in his own chair and wonder whether he’d ever have another calm sleep if the chair across from him was never filled again.

It would also be easier if this current separation was more like that one—involuntary on Sherlock's part. Of course, John hadn't known it was involuntary that at the time, but on the third day Sherlock was found bound and guarded in an apparently deserted garage—captured three days ago and starved since then, but not, thank god, tortured. And John was furious with the attackers but equally furious with himself, because how could he be so relieved that his best friend had been captured and starved for three days rather than hiding away of his own volition? But of course John knew the answer—he was relieved because it meant Sherlock hadn't deserted him without a word and maybe he never would; it meant John could still stay by his side and protect him from every attack; it meant they were partners; it meant Sherlock hadn't decided that the Work was more important than John's petrified heart. But now? Now he is doubting everything he'd hoped he had learned that day.

And it would be easier if Mycroft wasn't the only one who seems to regard Sherlock's life as secondary to the Work. John is used to being significantly more invested than Sherlock in the business of keeping the man alive. Much as it isn’t his preference, he can live with being the substitute for Sherlock's survival instinct. Or at least, he can when Sherlock isn’t running away from him. To John, being cut off this way feels like Sherlock declaring both that the current problem is more important than John's partnership, and that it is more important than Sherlock's survival. The former conclusion hurts John deeply; but the latter terrifies him.

_Of course, what it all comes down to is that all of this would be easier if I wasn't so bloody in love with Sherlock Holmes._

John's phone beeps, and John snatches it: 

St. Bart's. Lab. SH

_Thank God._

* * *

"Got your message," John says as he strides through the door, and there is a question in his voice. No accusation for Sherlock's sudden desertion, no doubt; just "What do you need? I'm here" ( _somebody bless him_ ).

But that's no good; he needs John distant, needs him to be the one to leave. It will be easier on John that way. Sherlock shouldn't have called him back in the first place really, but he had to figure out that key code and it was easier with John around and besides . . . well.

At any rate, he needs to stamp out that ready willingness in John's voice and purposeful stride. For starters Sherlock just hides his gratitude, launches into a description of his puzzle: the key code he needs to find if he is to have any chance of staying. But he has to remain seated at first, concentrating all his energy on hiding his wonder at this man who is surpassing all the duties that even extremely close friendship would demand of him, every muscle straining with the announcement, 'yes, of course I'm here, I wouldn't consider anything else' and— _maybe calling him back wasn't the best idea, he's being more distracting than normal._

But then John drums his fingers thoughtfully on the table and everything clicks and _how does he always manage to do that?_

The revelation comes with less relief than Sherlock expected, because that means it's TIME and there's no excuse for delay, no need to run back through Baker Street and be sure he’s absorbed every detail. So he slides his fingers from the cold countertop and turns, ensuring as he does that John's attention is fixed elsewhere ( _it is and it isn't; he's looking away but every fiber is focused on solving the problem, finding the right question_ ) and he types out his message:

Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH

PS. Got something of yours you might want back.

_Only a little longer now and John will despise you, and then the worst will be over._

That was a strange thought. "The worst"? Obviously Moriarty and the maybe dying part is the worst; alienating John is just a necessary side effect. Stupid brain. He clearly hasn’t filed all those emotions correctly and his mind is misinterpreting them.

* * *

John spends the next twenty minutes asking questions, trying to stumble on the right prompt. But Sherlock responds without epiphanies, only insults. It isn’t altogether unusual, but these feel different. They’re calm, not spoken as if in the midst of frustration. And they’re more targeted—not the generalized “idiot” Sherlock usually opts for. Almost as if he isn’t simply blowing off steam this time. Almost as if he means it.

_He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t. Of course he’s lashing out—trying to defeat an obsessed genius stalker will sort of put a bloke on edge._

Still, John isn’t exactly in a relaxed state of mind himself, and his responses are . . . less then gentle. When Sherlock declares him “Useless!” and for the first time in their friendship John has to restrain the sudden urge to bite back “Freak,” just to see if he can ring out proof that Sherlock cares for _something_ beyond solving the damned puzzle, John decides he needs to pull out. It’s not as if he’s doing any good by talking.

He mutters “sleep” and sits on a hard chair and lays his head on his forearms on the hard countertop. Sleep really would be best—Sherlock clearly isn’t in the mood for teamwork, and the best John can do is be rested enough to be alert and ready when the time comes.

Not that he’s expecting to sleep. The word ( _useless, useless, useless_ ) is repeating endlessly. And Sherlock has insulted him in a thousand ways that would sound far more severe to an outsider, but this is worse than anything because it feels true. Not always, not every day; but there are moments when Sherlock has rattled off a series of deductions that are impossible yet exactly right and he turns and starts running without bothering to explain, coat swirling and muscles straining with lithe energy, and John wonders, _what am I doing here?_ He knows he is occasionally helpful with his questions or his skills as a doctor or his excellent aim; but surely there are hundreds of others who could fill that same role, and maybe they’d have a intelligent thing to say once in a bloody blue moon, to boot. And some part of him knows it is silly, that the worth of one’s work is not mediated upon whether anyone else could accomplish it. But Sherlock is irreplaceable, utterly unique, and if John not does not and could never have Sherlock’s love, their lips and their bodies pressed together and exchanging energy, he at least longs to be more to Sherlock than a replaceable accessory.

_Useless, useless, useless._

But that’s bullshit; he knows it is. He is not replaceable, because he is Sherlock’s friend. And Sherlock, whatever he might say in a fit of anxiety, cares about him. He is sure of it, certain of it—almost. Because underneath the self-doubt, there is a worse fear; a fear which has been constantly put to rest only to reawaken countless times since the first day he met Sherlock Holmes: the fear that the detective’s sociopathic self-diagnosis is essentially correct, and that Sherlock doesn’t care about John because he doesn’t care about anyone.

_Shut up, I know that’s nonsense, I shouldn’t doubt him like that. I know that he has a heart in his own way; I know it, I know it, I know . . ._

* * *

The phone rings, and Sherlock’s heart lurches.

Sherlock has been watching John ever since he lay his head on his arms, hiding his face. He's hardly even been thinking, just watching. Memorizing. It’s not much of an angle, but he’ll take what he can get. Not that he allows himself to ask how on earth he can stare at an objectively uninteresting mess of sandy-blond hair and the uncomfortable curve of a spine for thirty minutes without an ounce of boredom.

So when the phone rings and John sleepily lifts his head, Sherlock feels visceral loss.

"Yeah, speaking?" John is still half asleep, unsuspecting, and Sherlock envies those last moments of blissful ignorance. But they are over soon enough. Sherlock hears the terror in John's voice as he jolts up from the chair.

And it's too much. _John is hurting because of me and he's about to hurt more and despise me; and I wonder if he would react that way if I was the one dying? Well of course he would, that's why I have to do this, because if he hates me he won’t suffer._ By the time John turns towards him as he signs off with the medics, giving Sherlock the chance to read the news in his face before hearing it in his words, Sherlock's eyes are stinging.

_Dammit, that could ruin everything! But he's distracted, it's only slight, he won't notice, can't notice—_

John doesn't notice, and mere moments later, Sherlock has done it. Everything worked beautifully. Not only has John left, he has stormed out dubbing Sherlock “machine.” Funny how accomplishing his primary goal feels so much like dying.

* * *

John makes it exactly four steps from the door before collapsing against the wall.

_Shit. Machine? Fuck._

He hadn’t meant it. Or maybe had, he doesn’t know. He just knows he’s sodding terrified, because if Sherlock Holmes doesn’t care about Martha Hudson, he doesn’t care about anybody. Certainly not about John. And if Sherlock doesn’t care about John, what’s to keep him from up and leaving one day when he feels like it, because he’s bored or because it’s _convenient._ Besides, if Sherlock can hear of the death of the one person with whom he is openly affectionate without making the faintest effort to alleviate her pain—well then. What sort of man has John been devoting himself to these past years?

_That’s bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit, and you know it, John Hamish Watson. If you still think there is a chance in hell that man doesn’t care about Martha Hudson, you’re a bigger idiot than even he thinks you are._

John grips his hair with both hands and yanks, hard, vaguely aware that he is fighting off panic. Because Mrs. Hudson is dying, alone, and he has to go to her this instant, but four steps away his best friend is hiding an intense grief as some fucking terrifying coping mechanism, and instead of offering comfort John has just insulted him in the worst way he knew how.

And yeah, Sherlock had it coming. How _dare_ the man prioritize his fucking emotionless mask over Mrs. Hudson’s dying comfort? Yes, Sherlock was asking for it, and if that was the reason John had stormed out on him he might (almost) run off with a clear conscience. If he hadn’t used that word, at least. But that wasn’t the reason John had done it, and he knows it clear as anything. He hadn’t shouted at Sherlock because Sherlock is a dick, or even because John fears he doesn’t care about anything. Sure, those were the aggravating circumstances, but the core of it, plain and simple, is that John is terrified Sherlock doesn’t care about him.

_Well, fuck me if I’m going to leave the man I love to suffer alone because of my fucking insecurities. You’ve got exactly three minutes to fix this, John Watson, and then straight to Mrs. Hudson, no matter what._

* * *

After John leaves, Sherlock doesn’t move. No need until John is away from the building. Which is just as well, because it would have been hard to move when _machine machine machine_ is pounding in his ears so loudly that he entirely fails to register the _thud, thud, thud, thud . . . silence_ of John’s footfalls.

It is also just as well, because if he had been standing he’d have quickly found himself seated again when John bursts back through the doors approximately 39 seconds after he left. And this isn’t the obedient soldier John who entered twelve hours ago. This John is seething and not—in any sense of the word—compliant.

_This return is unexpected given his belief regarding Mrs. Hudson’s condition, but not bad. Good, even. Evidence that he is even angrier than expected, and consequently will be less hurt by my 'suicide.' Excellent._

Of course, this mental assertion and the detachment Sherlock must project for John’s benefit might be a bit more convincing if Sherlock wasn't gripping the chair arms with whitened knuckles.

“No.” John is standing over Sherlock now, fists clenched and eyes unyielding. “You are not doing this.

Oddly intermingled with the lancing panic that John somehow ( _how?_ ) might have discovered his plan during the past 39 seconds, Sherlock flashes back to Baskerville and John pulling rank on a number of duly cowed officers.

_Oh. Not furious John—Captain John. Well, maybe furious captain. Can’t tell yet. I like this John. I’m glad I get to see Captain John again before I—shut up brain, and answer him!_

“This?” _Oh, brilliant response._

“You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock.”

_Breathe, Sherlock. It could be something else. It probably is. Don’t give it away._ “Not necessarily . . .”

“Fine. Then I’ll spell it out for you. You are not cutting yourself off from everyone you care about for the sodding _Work._ ”

_Ah. Good. Now breath. Answer._ “You are correct. I am not cutting myself off from the people I care about, because I do not have people I care about.”

“Nope.” John draws out the ’n’ and pops the ‘p’ in the way he only does when he’s really angry. Sherlock loves when John does that. “I’ve seen you—”

“Boring. Please do not waste your time citing meaningless examples. Displaying sentiment is occasionally useful. Colleagues, acquaintances, ‘friends’ are convenient. How many times must I tell you—”

“Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ ”

Sherlock’s brain really oughtn’t to be seizing up like this. It’s not as if he’s unused to being shouted at. But John’s Captain posture is slipping, and something is leaking through the anger—desperation? _Not good. Very not good._ But interrupting John now would be more than futile.

“I used to think maybe that was true, that you just don’t care. But I have been objective and scientific. I have explored every angle, every explanation, every alternative, and the only possible conclusion is that _you care._ ” John is shouting now, standing practically knee-to-knee with Sherlock, and in the quarter of his brain that is still functioning, Sherlock is really quite proud of himself for maintaining his indifferent exterior. John continues: “I’m not sure how much of that care extends towards me”— _What? John!_ —“but you do care! Jesus, Sherlock, I’ve built an entire mind bungalow to prove it!”

So much for the indifferent exterior.

“A . . . a mind bungalow?”

And so much for dignity.

“Yes, a bungalow Sherlock, because unlike you I’m not a genius and I can’t manage a palace, but it’s a very _nice_ bungalow, and it’s all devoted to proving you care! And do you want to know why? Why I went to all that bother?”

Sherlock is at a stalemate between befuddlement, desperate curiosity, and the absolute necessity of driving John away.

He nods. Which is _not_ the right response.

And then John drops to his knees and takes Sherlock’s numbly unresponsive hand in both of his own. And John’s voice is no longer angry, but neither has it lost any of its desperate force.

“Because I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

John keeps talking for perhaps another thirty seconds, something about “I care” and “they care” and “can’t leave,” and then he is charging out the door at full speed.

Sherlock hadn’t absorbed another word.

_I love you, Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

In the car, John is no longer fighting off panic. He’s just plain panicking.

Because Mrs. Hudson is dying and he just told Sherlock Holmes that he, John Hamish Watson, is in love with him.

_What the fuck was I_ thinking?

Okay, he knows exactly what he had been thinking, or feeling, or whatever the heck had been driving him. It was some vague idea that maybe John hadn’t been the only one lashing out from insecurity, that maybe if Sherlock just knew how much he meant to his friends he wouldn't’ keep running . . .

Not that John had planned that particular declaration. That had been, er—unexpected. And monumentally stupid. Because the whole problem here is that Sherlock is terrified of emotions, of caring and being cared for, and if he was already running before, just how fast would he sprint away now?

John hadn’t spoken under any illusions that his affections might be returned in kind. But neither, in the heat of the moment, had he been prepared for Sherlock to look so much like a lost child.

John had spoken in a desperately misguided attempt to keep Sherlock by his side; and he has ruined everything. There is no way Sherlock can bear to live in the proximity of an emotion so enormous as John’s love for him.

 

The other object of his panic is no less all-consuming, although it does not prompt any racing thoughts because the variables and their consequences are dead simple:

1\. Mycroft warned John about the snipers.

2\. John did nothing to protect or remove Mrs. Hudson from the danger.

3\. Mrs. Hudson has been shot.

4\. Mrs. Hudson is dying, and it is entirely John’s fault.

* * *

_I love you I Love you i love YOU I love you? I l o v e y o u I love you! iloveyou_

It’s a miracle that the plan is working this well, that Sherlock is actually standing on the edge of the roof, Mycroft’s lackeys poised for action below, Moriarty bleeding behind him. Well, that last is a mixed blessing. Yesterday he’d have thought that would be a best-case scenario, but if the man hadn’t gone and shot himself in the head he could have called off the snipers and maybe . . . _No use_.

The point is, this may not be what Sherlock was hoping for, but it’s a miracle it hasn’t gone worse, given that he was running on half a brain at best, the remainder of it having been usurped by _iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou_  on endless repeat. Not that his enormous, useless brain had made any progress processing the words; all it has accomplished so far was to repeat them with every imaginable cadence, speed, rhythm, volume, tone, emphasis, as if they might suddenly make sense if only he can say them the right way, crack the code.

Instead, thus far he hasn’t even managed to to identify the question he is so frantically posing.

And that had only been the first part. Because then Moriarty had said “snipers” and meant “ _John_ ” and “Mrs. Hudson” and “Lestrade,” and then a good three fourths of his mind was out of commission save for _JohnJohnMrsHudsonJohnJohnLestradeJohnJohnJohn,_ with a healthy undertow of _iloveyou_ still running beneath.

For a moment everything had cleared—one glorious moment when he thought he had managed it, thought he could save John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and have time to solve the impossible enigma of those three words—and then Moriarty had blown his own brains out, and Sherlock hadn’t seen it coming, has been too _slow._

Then John is back ( _of course he is, bless him_ ) and Sherlock has to keep him far enough away so that he doesn’t see, and as Sherlock dials his number he thinks, _I love you,_ and suddenly he knows that sometime during the past frantic minutes he had ceased to merely cycle John’s words through his mind and begun to declare them in return.

And in that moment Sherlock solves the puzzle he had been unable to identify, and he knows the pain of loss, and he understands the shame he had tried to lock so deeply away.

* * *

John sits curled against the wall outside the room into which Sherlock ( _his corpse? no, don’t wonder, just wait_ ) has been wheeled, curiously ignored by the hospital staff. His head is between his knees, and he focuses his weak energy on trying not to see, think, feel, putting every thing on hold until he knows for certain; but he sees nothing except the bloody, limp, empty shell of the most vibrantly alive man he has ever known, and he hears nothing but those words, “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.” Sherlock had spoken them once and John had dismissed them entirely, believing them to be part of the nonsense about Sherlock being a fake, but then Sherlock had repeated the words, and there was something so urgent in his tone that all at once it gave birth to a desperate, angry hope.

If it was true ( _dear God, let it be true_ ) it had to look real and John had to react accordingly; but there was no need to manufacture a role. Because John saw Sherlock fall, he stood mere yards away and watched his best friend plummet, and then he saw the body moments later and _no no no it looks so empty, so goddam void_ and it is so undeniable that Sherlock is gone but “it’s just a magic trick,” and this is Sherlock Holmes so perhaps it is possible, somehow . . .

The last medic leaves and only Molly is still inside, and John abruptly launches himself sideways at the door, slamming it with his fists even as he scrambles to his feet mere moments before Molly opens the door.

Molly puts a finger to her lips ( _why would she do that? What’s the point unless—_ ) then slips out, leaving the door cracked open for John. He freezes, suddenly unwilling to release his final moments of hope, then steps inside.

And there is Sherlock Holmes, looking bloodied and battered but standing without discernible effort. And John wants to scream and to strike him because _what THE HELL could possibly justify making me watch that without first communicating the plan_ but Sherlock is so very alive and John feels his face screw tight in an ineffectual attempt to hold back tears.

Sherlock hasn’t turned to look at John, he is staring across the room at a blank spot on the wall, but now he is speaking ( _oh god, he’s alive and he’s speaking_ ) and he is saying, “You’re wrong, you know. You do count. You’ve always counted and I've always trusted you.”

John breathes heavily, because what fucking kind of trust allowed for that stunt?

Then Sherlock turns his head towards John and he says “But you were right. I’m not okay.”

John finds he hasn’t the strength to do anything but jump to the core of it, skipping over the shouting and the fury that must come later to that which will always win out in the end when Sherlock is on the line: “tell me what’s wrong.”

“John,” Sherlock has turned towards John and is stepping slowly forward, “if I wasn’t everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?”

He is standing so very close, face hovering above John’s, and John is pressing against the door, terrified now he has felt just how completely Sherlock is capable of tearing him apart, yet his response is unconsidered, inevitable: “what do you need?”

And Sherlock steps yet closer, eyes searching John’s, desperate, pleading, and little baffled: “You.”

**Author's Note:**

> As you could probably now guess, wssh-watson's prompt was to write an alternate reichenbach story in which the words Sherlock speaks to Molly in the episode are instead addressed to John. Thank you, wssh-watson, for letting me take advantage of your prompt!
> 
> Like all fic writers, I would be delighted to receive any and all comments! Critique is welcome, especially if anything is unclear or any Americanisms have slipped past me. 
> 
> Thank you immensely for reading!


End file.
